


Promise to love you for ever more

by hollybibble



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:36:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybibble/pseuds/hollybibble
Summary: Six months after going public with their relationship, Alex and Henry are settling into domestic life in Brooklyn. But part of Alex is still struggling to let go of his anger at how they were exposed.He needs another love letter from Henry.





	Promise to love you for ever more

Alex was learning how to be happy, and he was a little pissed about how hard it could be sometimes. He was trying to ease off on the lists, but obviously the number one slot in the Reasons to Be Happy List went to waking up with Henry. Now, more than half the mornings when he opened his eyes, Henry was there, golden and rumpled and curled around him to watch him sleep or reading with one hand resting protectively on Alex’s shoulder. Henry still didn’t sleep much, but with him right there Alex worried about it less. 

But...sometimes all he could think about was those mornings he had woken up and Henry was gone—in his bunk bed at the lake house; that morning after he stormed Kensington Palace to tell Henry he loved him. Alex was surprised and embarrassed by how sharp and terrifying those memories still were. They were together now; Henry was his, but it could have turned out differently if he hadn’t been so stubborn and Henry hadn’t been so brave. So right there along with the Reasons to Be Happy was the restless anxiety that had followed him to Brooklyn.

The Brooklyn brownstone was their oasis from the rest of the world. In all his fevered trans-Atlantic flights to touch Henry’s body, Alex had never allowed himself to imagine what a real life together would look like. He had an abstract concept that maybe someday there would be warmth and time and no pressing weight of the fate of two countries. But he had had no fucking concept of the utter domestic bliss living with Henry could be. How had Alex not known that Henry could make amazing scrambled eggs, the Gordon Ramsay kind where you swirl in a little creme fraiche at the end? And that he looked so maddeningly competent and sexy doing it that Alex absolutely had to kiss him immediately, and he could because they were in their own kitchen in their own home, and everyone knew they were together anyway?

And almost sweeter were the signs of Henry when he wasn’t there. Henry had a habit of reading several books at once and leaving them around the apartment in unexpected locations—Auden next to the toaster, E. Nesbit beside the bathroom sink, Achebe on the living room floor—to mark his small journeys around the rooms. Henry had barely made a mark on his rooms at Kensington, so to walk around the brownstone and see the framed photos of Bea, the comfortable reading chair he had chosen, the Jaffa cakes he stuffed in his suitcase from regular trips to London, made Alex dizzy and overwhelmed with love. 

Alex hoped that Henry found him just as delightfully surprising, though having gone straight from his family home in Austin to the White House, he didn’t know how to cook anything edible unless you counted dirty martinis with lots of olives. He liked background noise, Rachel Maddow or Tito Puente or the Pod Save America guys, or sometimes all at once. Alex loved Henry’s baffled amusement when he came home to find Alex surrounded by Thai takeout containers, Facetiming with Nora about what Anderson Cooper was saying while trumpets blared from the speakers.

Coming home. This was obviously Number Two on the list. They finally had space, and they had time, and they had each other. Sometimes, Alex didn’t know what to do with all the love that was constantly pouring out of him. Sometimes he tackled Henry and kissed him so hard that it was like he was trying to eat him alive. Even then it still wasn’t enough to feel okay that this was how it was going to be from now one, no one was going anywhere. Sometimes, when he was more relaxed, he asked Henry to read to him, so he could just listen, and stare, and wonder how someone so beautiful, so special, a literal Prince Charming, was his boyfriend.

Life outside the enchanted brownstone was, well, kind of a shit show. The public outpouring of support for their relationship was beyond what he had ever expected, but sometimes he felt in danger of being loved to death. It had been six months since his coming out speech to the country, and the press was still fascinated by him and Henry, even more than they had ever been by FSOTUS or the youngest prince individually. Cash was now based in New York as head of Alex’s security team, but there was still a gang of paparazzi always waiting by the door to get a shot of Alex and Henry heading out to a restaurant or for a run in Prospect Park.

It made Alex furious, if he let himself think about it. All his life, he’d been generous with his smiles, knowing it would help his mother whenever he came across as smart and friendly. But ever since the press had published the Waterloo letters, he didn’t want to play the game any longer. All the heartfelt emails between him and Henry in those wonderful, tortured early months together, their confessions and their teasing, were out there for anyone to coldly analyze and pick apart. He was angry at Richards for having them hacked, angry at the _Daily Mail_ for publishing them, and angry at every single person who read them. He couldn’t forget that terrible night, when Zahra had woken him up yelling, and he’d sat across from his mother in the Situation Room with printouts of the emails, all their outpouring of love and desire and goddamned tenderness suddenly a problem to be dealt with. 

He wasn’t ashamed. It was just...private. It was his. Henry’s words about how Alex looked like a young Che Guevara while he slept or had a voice like honey on gravel. He hated it when strangers would start singing “Your Song” to them on the streets. Because that was _their song_. Alex had long ago given up that part of himself that created his public persona. But he and Henry deserved to have their own private memories and references that hadn’t been turned into some Buzzfeed list of “20 reasons why Alex and Henry are #couplegoals.” 

Henry’s reaction was more measured, of course. His temper always ran at a cooler temperature than Alex’s, which probably deserved a spot on the Reasons to Be Happy list when it wasn’t driving Alex crazy.

“It’s all right, love,” he would say when Alex would fume and rant and grind his teeth. “I have so many more pretty things to say about your eyelashes and your fine legs.” And he would press his forehead to Alex’s and wrap his arms around Alex’s waist to create their own little world within the bubble of their home. “And there’s new things every day. You could make a sailor blush with the way you bite your lip when you’re deep in thought. On the plane yesterday, all I could think about was the way you look with your glasses on when you’re reading your favorite policy briefings and chewing on your lip until it turns rosy. And no one knows about that but me.” 

Alex was still restless. “Doesn’t it ever just piss you off, though? Sometimes I want to go back and read those letters. I want to remember falling in love with you, and laugh at what a dumbass I was, but it feels like they’re...tainted. And sometimes I think you should be angrier. It was worse for you to be outed like that, not just to the country but to your family.”

Henry put his hand on Alex’s knee and looked at him fondly with those bottomless blue eyes. “Alex, when I look at what we have now, I could never regret anything that got us here. The truth shall set you free, and all that.” Suddenly, Henry’s face turned serious, and his eyes got even bluer, if that was even possible. “But I hate that it upsets you so much, love. Maybe it was easier for me because I was so compartmentalized between public me and the little corner of private me. And every time I tried to venture out from that divide I made a bloody mess of it, like coming out to Philip in the clumsiest way possible. Or making a desperate pass at you on the White House lawn and then running away.” 

Alex smiled at that and laced his fingers through Henry’s. “Can’t argue with that.” He was already calmer. He was always amazed how Henry could do that to him, douse his anger or his restless spirals with a few thoughtful words. Making out for a while would probably help, too.

Henry continued. “Every day, I hear from people all over the world who tell me how much those letters meant to them, how it gave them courage to see how we loved each other, and fought for each other. The teenagers at the shelter who have been kicked out of their homes, they’ve read them and sort of tease me about it.”

Alex looked up in surprise at that. “Really?”

“I guess I never told you that. They even call me that sometimes. Waterloo.”

“Wait. You have a nickname? Like, ‘hey Waterloo, how’s it hanging?’”

“More or less. With the aid of Urbandictionary.com, I’ve confirmed that their intentions are friendly. Thanks to the letters, they start out trusting me. They know that even though I grew up, well, a bit privileged, that I’ve, as they say, been through some shit.”

Alex wrapped up Henry in his arms and planted a series of kisses along his neck. “Have I told you yet today how much I totally love you?”

“Not in so many words.” Henry ruffled his fingers through Alex’s hair. “But Alex, I’m sorry it’s painful to you. I understand. I’ll write you more letters. I’ll spend the rest of my life writing love letters to you, because every day I love you more and for more reasons. For example, I didn’t know until today that when you eat cereal, you put the milk in first, which I don’t find barbaric at all but for some reason very endearing.”

Alex snuggled in closer. “It helps the cereal stay crispier longer.”

“Oh, no doubt there are scientific papers affirming this.”

“Have I also told you yet today how insufferable you are?”

“Probably. I love you, darling.”

**  
Later that week, after Henry left for a week’s visit to Lagos to scout locations for a youth shelter with Pez, Alex found an envelope propped up on the coffee machine. 

It was all very extra in the best way, just like Henry himself. The front of the envelope had ‘Alex’ written on it in Henry’s offhand script that was as elegant as a wedding invitation. The paper was thick and heavy, and it all somehow smelled good, like he had doused it with a little cologne like freaking Elle Woods. Alex settled in on the couch to read it, something soft and warm growing in his chest at the thought of Henry leaving this for him.

Dearest Alex,

I know that a fine love letter should start with gentle compliments (your eyes sparkle like stars; your arms wrapped around me feel heavy as iron but heart-stoppingly tender) and crescendo into the more thundering declarations. However, you and I have always followed our own path, and I spent too long trying to bury my feelings. So please allow me to open by saying Alex Claremont-Diaz, you bewitching sorcerer of the dark curls and perfect shoulders, you are the absolute love of my life.

Sometimes I love you to distraction, like when I’m in a meeting with Philip and all I can think about is the way that you can kiss me one minute like I’m a soldier headed off to war, and the next minute like you’re Mata Hari trying to learn my secrets, and the next minute like you have all goddamn day and are going to use every minute. It is, to put it lightly, quite intoxicating.

But I also love you in the ways that give me strength. When I’m with Gran, or with people protesting the shelter which only wants to help young people, rejected by their families for something they cannot control, I think of you. I think, what would my headstrong love Alex Claremont-Diaz, the man who fought for me and yelled terrible obscenities at my window in the pouring rain, what would he do right now? And then I take a deep breath and feel your strength with me and tell these people exactly what I think. And I don’t give one fuck what they think about me, because I have Alex Claremont-Diaz waiting for me at home.

Home. I told you about my childish dream of dancing with someone I loved in the chapel at the V&A, and that actually came true. But I never even dreamed I’d have a home with the dark-eyed man I love. It was too big a wish to ever put into words, and yet there you are, no doubt on our couch drinking the first of many coffees. 

My darling, I miss you, and I am counting the days until we are together again. Please forgive me for closing with these surprisingly meaningful lyrics by Bjorn Ulvaeus, Benny Andersson, and Stig Anderson, written for the 1974 Eurovision competition before becoming an international hit for supergroup ABBA.

The history book on the shelf  
Is always repeating itself  
I was defeated, you won the war  
Promise to love you for ever more  
Couldn't escape if I wanted to  
Knowing my fate is to be with you  
Finally facing my Waterloo.

I will forever feel forever about you.

Yours, H.

 

Alex laughed as he finished the letter and stretched out on the couch. Now he’d have that damn song in his head all day.

He felt one of those waves of love starting to crash over him. When he and Henry were first together, they used to knock him on his ass, so overcome that he thought he was going to die right there. Now he imagined surfing the wave, like he and June had done a few times visiting his dad in California. The first few tries he was too eager. He couldn’t get the timing right and got left behind, bobbing up and down on his surfboard. Until the one time he got it. The one time he let go and worked with the wave, letting it control him while he shifted his balance and stayed just ahead of the break. Henry’s love could be like that. Alex could catch the wave’s power and let it move through him, feeling the exhilaration as it pushed him towards the shore. 

He could relax and enjoy the fucking ride for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! It's exciting to watch this fandom grow. Comments are a delight and a treasure.


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